Tears, Inappropriate comments, and Souls

Lying in my bed, listening to the rain, and crying over the offensive things that were said to me at work last night, I decided to write about why such comments are so offensive.

Last night, at my second job, a middle-aged male came around the corner from having his meal with his WIFE, saw me smiling behind the cash stand, and asked, rather loudly, if I would go home with him because he liked redheads. I awkwardly laughed and told him it wasn't natural, but instead of him letting it go, of being grateful that some woman actually married him, that I wasn't roundhouse kicking his knees out of placement, he continues to ask me what time I got off. Repeatedly. Really? REALLY?

And as I think on it, I find it bothers me so much because it's ridiculously asinine to make comments like that. What point could that have possibly served? All I can think about is sitting in Dr. G.'s Chaucer class and discussing how physical attraction is what initially attracts us to a person. Why? Because we let it. I don't know if I will ever understand it, because what good is the outward appearance? Really, what good is it? It fads with age or is taken away with an accident. What is so hard to understand about that? We are not "bodies with souls" as Jim Butcher's Queen Mab so distinctly puts it, but rather "souls with bodies". The shell is a temporary residence. We should be attracted to each others souls. They're the stuff of eternity.

So, dear readers, I've decided I have three choices: 1. Marry a blind man. 2. Become a nun. 3. Travel and paint with a completely platonic male friend to keep the creepers at bay. I like number three best--LB, let's go!

First Loves and "What If"s

I just discovered that my "first love" is married. Has been for a couple of months. My heart stopped, watched my youth die, and started back up again with a bit of remorse. I've long since dispersed my feelings for this male on the winds of yesteryear, and really am quite happy that his life is going so well for him, but it still seems to slap my year long commitment in the face. I've made this commitment to God for no dating for one year. An entire year of no dating, no giving out my number, as minimal amount of flirting as possible, in order to work on all of my trust and commitment issues. You know, taking that time for me before I get into another relationship and then figure out that I need to work on my issues. But still, in spite of everything, I can't help but muse over the "what if"s. What if at 15 I hadn't freaked out when he sent me a lovey-dovey email poem with flashing, red hearts that summer in Oregon? What if I had been honest with myself from the start? What if the next summer I hadn't lied to him when he asked if I ever had feelings for him? What if I hadn't set him up with a friend who broke his heart? What if he hadn't moved away? What if I hadn't waited four years to confess my feelings for him that first semester of college? What if he hadn't disappeared, again? What if that New Year's Eve two years ago I had leaned in and kissed him like I so desperately wanted to? What if I hadn't called him two days later and explained to him every single reason why we couldn't be together (because, oh yes, he had still felt it also) which literally put him in the arms of his new bride? What if? What if? What it!! Would it be me? Would I be a newly wed? Would I have gone to Lee and met Dana and Kathryn and James? Would I have discovered I'm a painter? Would I have studied and expanded my mind? Would I be wondering about the life I could have had?  Would I have experienced half the things I have experienced? Seen half of what I've seen? Would I be who I am? I rather think not. I can't really imagine that version of myself. I still can't even really see myself getting married down the road, but with him, would it have been different? He was that tantric love of youth, after all. Are the rules different that first time? Is each subsequent relationship more focused on the drive of tomorrow to experience that zealousness of now?

Harry Dresden, How I Love Thee

If you're a book lover, chances are you've read a book that just leaves you feeling lost in the wake of it's epic-ness. You have so many thoughts and inquiries and a sense of needing more. You sit and revel in the intense feeling of a well completed tale and scoff at your own amateur attempts. Well, I just finished one. Ghost Story, Jim Butcher's 13th book in the Dresden Files, is just that. I know, the 13th book sounds like it would just be dragging the story on, like the 13th Land Before Time movie, but Butcher's style is nothing like that. If anything, he actually gets better with each subsequent book. If you're looking for a new read, something for both men and women with a touch of magic, a lot of mystery, quite a few fiery explosions, and some romance tossed in, check out Harry Dresden, Chicago's own snarky personal wizard detective in Storm Front and then go out and buy the second and third and fourth and...you get the picture. Also, if you're a fan of audio books, this series is read by yummy ole Spike from Buffy, yep James Marsters. And just as lovely is the graphic novel versions that Butcher is putting out. Welcome to the Jungle is the first installment. Everything about this series makes me happy.

Birthday Puzzle

We got in these really fun puzzle cards at work. My stepdad's birthday is Wednesday. I broke out my Stampscapes and made him a puzzle birthday card.

I made sure to scramble the pieces up when I was finished and added an insult to the front of the envelope. It says "Have fun, Old Man!"

Then to add injury to insult, I put a little taunt on the inside of the envelope.

To soften the blow of having to put together his own birthday card, I threw in a batch of the homemade licorice candy that he we nuts over at Christmas time. Yum!

St. Paddy's Day

Happy St. Paddy's Day!!

Decked head to toe in green and shamrocks, I was amazed at how many people asked me if today was St. Patrick's Day. Yes, all you people, yes.

A Weekend Trip

So, I traversed the lanes of I75 this weekend in my brief return to Chattanooga for Lea’s birthday. I was finally able to gift her with the painting that I had been working on for over a year. Heartfelt and bittersweet, the painting of her and her dad at her wedding is something that I have wanted to paint since his death, and have worked on in stints.

But, alas, it now hangs on the wall of her and her husband’s apartment, and I can finally move on to the other paintings that my fingers have been wanting to create, but my heart would not allow me to move on to for fear of never finishing this painting. But I can now, and intend to start immediately on this one for the cover.
Anyway, there is nothing quite so grand as just getting away for the weekend to a place that you love. There is something magical about the art district of Chattanooga, and at breakfast this morning part of it revealed itself. Sitting on the patio at Rembrandt’s, over this grand concoction of French toast out of French loaf, Mascarpone cheese, and fruit compote and kiwi pear tea, I came to a conclusion. That little corner of the world must be very similar to what it once was before the assault of 20th century technologies. Plus, their rum balls provide a magic all their own.
Then, on the drive home I was enveloped in a rather thick fog through most of Knoxville and all of Sevierville. Fog is quite magical when the lighting is right, and it was till the miles of construction on 66 with its glaring orange and white barrels came into view. Up until that point I had envisioned myself being swept through dimensions and entering a world where magic governs the land and mermaids lounge on the moonlit stream bank. But it was all shattered with that first construction barrel. Ugh. Sevierville.
So, from the odd dog pack on the side of the highway (rather Oliver and Company) to the two for one margaritas and the delight of Rembrandt’s with a splash of Charming Charlie’s, McKay’s, and the crazy, fun company, the weekend was a fantastic success. But, sadly, I now sit once again in the dulls of Sevierville and long for the day when everyday life is not centered in a tourist trap. Even if it is just another weekend trip to visit friends and wake up in the middle of the night to find that your leg has fallen asleep because of the dog using it as a bed.

Opportunity

I have recently been asked to do the cover art for a former professor's book. This is a fantastic opportunity as in it could lead to a contract. His idea is very specific and will be difficult, but utterly thrilling to accomplish. If five years ago someone had told me a would be a painter, I would have laughed at them. Yet, from that fateful moment I swirled that Titanium White with that Alizarin Crimson and paint thinner permeated my hair, something clicked.